Wee Hours
By NeonRebar on April 9, 2026 6:16 pm
Its the wee hours and furtive rustlings in the yard are giving way to more concerted jumping and ramshackle bumbling. Enter the grudging hours that grind like some massive millstone gaining speed on each revolution.
There is thick scent of loam and fertile soil. Flies of the unseen continent and their kindred mini-wasps of the balkanized undergrowth summon to strict wing maintainance and leg duty.
A snipe blinks in and out of existence. Irrational gymnastics of a gang of young toads adds to the steady ostinato in the time of slow waking.
Dewpoint gathers momentum and water tendrils melt into life on the leaves and stems of the vegetative battalion.
Miles overhead, a discrete and pristine jet like some obscure dragon cleaves the still and whispers its jetty propulsion in a cosmic background radiation to paint the sky.
I stand silent at the window, focus my eyes to the low light and bear witness .
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